READY TO PARTY: MUMIA ABU-JAMAL AND THE BLACK PANTHER PARTY

NOTE: In his new book, "We Want Freedom: A Life In The
Black Panther Party" (South End Press), Mumia Abu-Jamal, a Pennsylvania
Death Row inmate, remembers his Party days. In this excerpt of "We Want
Freedom," Abu-Jamal recalls his life as a founding member of the Party’s
Philadelphia branch.

In this excerpt of "We Want Freedom," he recalls going to
Oakland, Calif. for the first time. His mission: to work in the Party’s
national headquarters. One of his tasks there was to write for The Black
Panther, the Party’s national newspaper.

His mother, Edith Cook, calls him by his birth name, Wes,
which is short for Wesley.

Writes Mumia of his experiences as a Panther: "The days
were long. The risks were substantial. The rewards were few. Yet the freedom
was hypnotic. We could think freely, write freely, act freely. We knew that
we were working for our people’s freedom, and we loved it. It was the one
place in the world that seemed to be in the right place." – Todd Steven
Burroughs

A PHILLY PANTHER GROWS IN OAKLAND (PART II)

By Mumia Abu-Jamal

For most Panthers, Oakland was Mecca.

It was the homeland, the birthplace, the cradle of the
Black Panther Party. For a 15-year-old from Philly, it was almost like going
to Heaven.

Although assigned to National Headquarters in the tony
town of Berkeley, the gritty port city of Oakland was the real shebang. That
was where Huey grew up, it was where the Party came into being, and where
most of the dirtiest fighting took place in the formative experiences of the
organization.

I longed to go there and, one day, was sent there to sell
some papers. I was thrilled.

II

WHEN I GOT to go West Oakland, I was struck by several
things.

First, the ordinariness of it.

Second, I was again amazed at what folks here considered
"ghetto" and how that term is often relative. Their houses, semi-detached
and surrounded by green carpets of grass, closely resembled the houses in
Philadelphia’s West Oak Lane neighborhoods, which were seen by the ghetto
residents of Philly as good living. Compared to the fine homes in the nearby
hills, they were, of course, of lesser quality.

Third, I was struck by the quiet level of hostility I
sensed when I tried to sell the newspaper around the community. I had sold
it in Philadelphia, in the Bronx, in Queens, and in Harlem, yet this was the
first time I sensed such resistance. Nobody verbalized anything, but it was
written on too many street faces to ignore.

Why?

I never learned why, but in retrospect, one wonders, was
this an early reaction to an emergent "black ops" phase of the Party
underground? No one spoke about it, but there was something there—quiet, yet
discernable.

However unremarkable it seemed to me, it reminded me
that, relatively speaking, ghettoes still possess a certain sameness about
them; there is an unmistakable psychic aura of funk about them.

III

IT WAS INDEED in Oakland that I received my introduction
to the local constabulary. But it was not in the green ghetto of West
Oakland.

As the next week’s issue of The Black Panther had
been laid out and was en route to the printer, a Panther sister named Shelia
and I were sent out to sell papers, and we ventured in downtown Oakland to
hawk our wares. We opted to hit downtown Oakland. She took one side and I
took another. When I crossed the street, I did so in the middle of the block
instead of at the crosswalk, where a lonely light stood. I didn’t hesitate
to scoot across the street, as I had all my life in Philly if the traffic
were light.

No sooner had I crossed when a cop car rolled up. Two
dark-uniformed cops exited the sedan and explained that I had violated an
Alameda County ordinance against jaywalking.

Jaywalking?!?

I was dumbfounded. I was under arrest for jaywalking.
Moments later so had Shelia because she had crossed over after the cops
pulled up to see what was going on.

I had yearned to be in Oakland, I thought to myself,
andnow I’m gonna meet the most vicious, racist pigs in America.
I expected to get whipped unconscious by these creeps in black uniforms.

The cops handcuffed me and Shelia, as I braced for a
pummeling or a rain of racist insults. The cops spoke with such politeness
that I was indeed shocked. "Sir," this; "Sir," that; "Ma’am," this; "Ma’am,"
that; I had never heard cops talk this way, either in Philadelphia or in the
Bronx. "Watch your head, sir," as I was placed in the vehicle, cuffed.

I looked at Shelia, and I just knew that when we got to
the station, or precinct, or whatever they called it out here, the
blackjacks, the kicks, the punches would rain like water.

To my utter surprise, they never came.

Our newspapers were seized, and, as we were juveniles, we
were taken to the Alameda County Juvenile Hall.

It was then that the real meaning of what had happened
dawned on me.

What does it matter how polite the cops are when they
lock you up and put you in jail—for jaywalking!?

If we were not selling copies of The Black Panther,
would this have happened?

I don’t think so.

They were beating us, softly.

IV

WE WERE PLACED in small rooms; while not classic, barred
cells, they were clearly rooms constructed for restraint.

We signaled to each other that we would agitate for a
phone call, and when we were able, she called her mother who lived in
Berkeley and could come to pick her up.

Shelia’s mom appeared shortly thereafter, a small
bespectacled white lady (it was a day of shocks!), who nervously hustled her
baby out of the clink. Shelia looked guilty as she left, as if she didn’t
want to leave her Panther brother behind. But there was little choice. She
bravely curled her fingers into a Black Power salute and raised it to her
comrade.

I smiled and returned it.

I would miss her, but I was glad to see her escape the
pig’s clutches.

Shelia went home.

I went to jail.

It was a juvenile jail (as I was under 21), but it was a
jail nonetheless.

I was remanded to the juvenile authority, because, unlike
Shelia, I was some 3,000 miles away from home. There was no way my mom
would, or even could, come pick me up.

For starters, she hadn’t the slightest idea where I was.

While I called home occasionally, and even came by the
house as often as I could, I lived with the Party and was cautious about
security by letting her know my every move. It would only worry her, which I
didn’t want to do unnecessarily.

I loved her like crazy.

But I also loved life in the Party.

As Shelia left, and I went through the processing stage,
I was placed in a single-cell-like enclosure.

V

IN THAT CELL, I thought about all the other Panthers in
cells across the nation: Bobby Seale and Ericka Huggins, facing death in New
Haven; the "Panther 21" facing centuries in New York’s gulags; the Panthers
who were recently busted in a Southern California shoot-out at the LA
chapter, and brothers and sisters like me. Thoughts of them warmed me like a
campfire near the soul.

They were facing real drama! [And] here I was, for
jaywalking! I had nothin’ to holler about. I stretched out on the cool,
plastic-covered mattress and slept.

I had just lain down and shut my eyes, it seemed, when I
heard the sounds of the door being opened. I forced myself awake and stood
up, feeling that an attack could come at any moment.

A big dude appeared at the door and began barking orders
at me. I looked at him like he was speaking Korean. The only word I
understood was "strip," and I certainly wasn’t going to do that. I had heard
about prison rape.

"Strip," he said again, to which I again replied, "No."

He returned five minutes later and seemed genuinely
surprised that I hadn’t removed a single stitch of clothing.

If we were going to fight, I wasn’t going to fight naked.

"Boy, didn’t I tell you to strip?" he thundered.

"Man, I ain’t doin’ a damn thing! We gon’ fight!" I
answered.

"Well, you ain’t gettin’ no shower then!" he announced
angrily and slammed the door shut.

Shower? What was this dude talking about? It never
dawned on me that he worked there. He wore regular clothes. I just thought
he was a guy.

Several days later, I was taken to the counselor’s office
at the center, and a man began asking questions about who I was, why wasn’t
I in school, and so forth. I explained to him that I was working for the
Black Panther Party.

At one point he said, "Young man, don’t you know that we
can keep you here until you’re 21-years-old?"

I looked him in the eye and said, "So what? When I get
out, there’ll still be a Black Panther Party!"

He shook his head.

Moments later, he was dialing the phone to my mother’s
house in Philadelphia, asked to verify her name, and passed the phone over
to me:

"Mama?"

"Wes—Is that you?"

"Yes, Mama—"

"Boy—What did I hear this man sayin’—? Where are you?"

"I’m in Alameda County, Califor—"

"Cali—what? Boy, what are you doin’—? You better carry
yho narrow behind—Boy? What in the Sam Hill—Cali-Whatt?!?!?!?!?"

"Mama—mama—I’m workin’ out here ona paper, for the
Party—you know—"

"Boy—How long you been out California?"

"Yeah, Mom—I’m OK—"

"OK?—Didn’t I just hear this man say you was callin’ from
some kinda jail--?"

"Mama—Mama—I’m in here for jaywalkin’—jaywalkin’! Out
here they real strict about traffic laws…. I just crossed the street, and—"

" ‘Crossed the street?’—boy, you done crossed the whole
country!—Wes—mph! Boy, if you don’t get yho bony behind back here—"

"Mama—Mama! I can’t, Mom—I can’t—I’m doing important
work, Mom."

"Like gettin’ yhoself locked up, boy? How important is
that?"

"Mama—It’s gonna be alright—we got lawyers out here that
are real good—this ain’t nothin’ but harassment—when the last time you heard
about somebody gettin’ busted for ‘jaywalkin,’ huh, Mom?"

Her maternal fear was melting to pride that her boy was
so aggressively doing something for our people. She was afraid. She was
angry. But she was pleased as well. I could hear it in her voice, her high
country laugh. She knew that I felt deeply about what I was doing.

As I listened to her pride and love override her fear, I
thought about the many mothers like her; like Shelia’s mother, probably
good, church-going (or temple-going) folks who were probably simpatico with
the sweet teachings of Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., but who, deep down,
were proud of the moxie shown by the Panthers. They might not help with the
Breakfast Program. But when they read of us, or thought of us, in the
private chambers of the heart, the mind, the soul, they admired us. Once I
heard that tone in her voice, her deep sense of humor, I knew I was alright.
Unlike perhaps thousands of youth throughout this vast state, I wasn’t here
for robbery or rape. I wasn’t here for hurting my people. I wasn’t here for
"crime." I was here for defending my people. I was here because I was a
member of the Black Panther Party.

Within a few weeks, I was back out, no worse for wear.

I was out of jail and back in the swing of things. I was
working on the paper, selling them and editing stuff coming in from all the
branches and chapters across the country.

My boss, Editor Judi Douglass, seemed pleased with my
work, and that pleased me. We worked hard to make the paper the best it
could be.

Todd Steven Burroughs, Ph.D. (tburroughs@jmail.umd.edu)
is an independent researcher/writer based in Hyattsville, Md. He is a
primary author of Civil Rights Chronicle (Legacy), a history of the
Civil Rights Movement, and a contributor to Putting The Movement Back
Into Civil Rights Teaching (Teaching For Change/Poverty & Race Research
Action Council), a K-12 teaching guide of the Civil Rights Movement. He is
writing a biography of Abu-Jamal.